


A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things

by fleshfeel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cannibalism, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Sibling Incest, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleshfeel/pseuds/fleshfeel
Summary: If they had the lifespans of stars they could burn off their self-hatred like hydrogen and collapse into each other, but they will have shorter lifespans than the average human, and when they collapse into each other there is no brilliant show in the sky, they leave behind only slug-slime. They leave behind cum and blood, amniotic fluid, flaked-off skin, shed hair. All they can be is stomach-churning and human. All they can do is cannibalize.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 8





	A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Insomniac" by Sylvia Plath. Mind the tags :o)

Big brother kisses sink into Sam’s lips with a healing, pleasant burn, minty and warm like medicated lip balm. 

When he carves blooming-flower-shaped kisses into his brother’s neck he feels like he’s pulling stringy strips of flesh from a warm corpse, but the meat nourishes him like nothing else. His brother’s skin and blood bestow gifts of plenty between his teeth, and he pushes past the feeling of being an oversized tick, curled in on itself and latched onto its prey, to find the gentle ease of equally-returned love, what Dean has always granted him. 

Dean puts a hand in Sam’s silk hair, a mindless action, maybe, automatic really, and two decades of bile settle in Sam’s stomach. Warmth spreads from Dean’s palm in his hair like tingling, midsummer sunlight.

Sam presses his nose into Dean’s pulse and breathes him in, scared when he pulls away Dean will be two-dimensional, made of cardboard and styrofoam, and there will be no sunlight-warm touch and coppery, nourishing blood. Just plastic. But against Dean’s heartbeat, there is no fear, and Sam is whole.

They keep up weak façades like too-heavy breath behind too-thin walls. If John knows he doesn’t say anything, because he’s a great father, and what else is he supposed to do? Call a family meeting? Get a family therapist? _We’ll work through this together, come out with a stronger bond._ Sam and Dean’s bond is strong enough as is. 

John’s too tired to ask when it went wrong. When Sam was 13 or 14?

It went wrong when Mary died. It went wrong when they were born.

It went wrong at conception.

And _what if_ John questions it, what will they do? Dean will throw his baby brother over his shoulder and drive off and never be found. The knowledge is bitter, slow-acting poison in John’s mouth, cancer-lethal and envelope-glue flavored.

Sam and Dean will _always_ reach for each other in the dark.

John never asks himself if it’s his fault, it’s easier to believe they were born wrong, and he’ll die before he ever learns that it’s true.

Sam dreams up a funeral for John.

Sam dreams up standing arm-in-arm with his brother over John’s made-up grave.

“Taken too soon,” Dean half-jokes into John’s made-up casket. 

Yellow-eyes may have taken their father’s soul, but in the end Sam can’t help but believe it was his sons who poisoned him to death.

//

Dean will seethe in Sam’s hypnotic black-hole irises for aeons, but he’ll burn his skin off a thousand times before he can bear to be loved in earnest. Sam will draw constellations in Dean’s freckles and spill his guts into Dean’s spat-up coffee dregs, crack Dean’s skull open if it means his words are heard.

Sam looks inward and finds nothing new.

If they had the lifespans of stars they could burn off their self-hatred like hydrogen and collapse into each other, but they will have shorter lifespans than the average human, and when they collapse into each other there is no brilliant show in the sky, they leave behind only slug-slime. They leave behind cum and blood, amniotic fluid, flaked-off skin, shed hair. All they can be is stomach-churning and human. All they can do is cannibalize.

Sam dies in mud and his brother’s arms.

Typical.

He dies like he was born, gasping for midwestern air.

He dies with his knuckles scabbing over and buzzing pain easing him into nothing. He dies with Dean’s scent in his nose and Dean’s warmth wrapped around him.

Sammy dies getting his blood all over Dean’s hands.

Typical.

//

Dean’s lips turn to bubblegum in his teeth, so soaked in spit the skin has become soft and chewy. Thin layers of flesh bloodlessly slough off Dean’s lips and get stuck between his grinding, aching, ivory teeth. 

The skin bestows no gifts to him, or Sam for that matter. At least not anymore. Not for now.

Time has long abandoned him, and if he didn’t have a migraine it would be dreamlike. Phlegm and clotted snot slinks down his sinuses and stops shy at his esophagus, and Dean has to open his dry, clicking throat and force it into his stomach. When his throat closes it comes up some, salty and sweet, and Dean gags.

Sam’s corpse lays in front of him on the bed in Bobby’s house. He’s cold and stiff, and soon to bloat and stink. Dean’s stomach curdles and he gags again.

He closes his eyes and pretends to put white roses around Sam’s body. He pretends to lay Sam down on a silk deathbed, or maybe a deathbed made of clean, starched linen, a young wife on cotton and bleach, surrounded by flowers.

Snow White.

In his head, Dean kisses the icy skull of a dead boy and pulls the princess back from slumber. In his head, Sam is born anew.

In the real world, a fly lands on Sam’s face.

If he never sees Sammy alive again this is what will cloud all his memories, he will look back and all he will see is Sammy rotting,

He still has options, these demons are old friends now.

//

Evil things are born each time they kiss.

Dean brings Sam back.

Of course he does.

Sam considers putting tinfoil in the motel microwave and burning the whole place down. A radiated crackle and then sparks and then the room is ash. In Hell, flames will lick up Sam and Dean’s faces, and they’ll never see their mother again.

Maybe they’ll never see each other again.

In Hell, there will be no more cheap, L-shaped motels and no more mountain towns. In Hell, there will be no more hunting. Just eternity, and humanity lost.

Sam is devout, and maybe he will go to Heaven, but he was handpicked by the Devil, so he figures it’s unlikely.

Sam’s second death will be a widow’s death, no doubt. Sam will choke on carbon monoxide, or choke on his own throat, closed up with a noose. The slug-slime children they birth each time they kiss will find Sam’s strung-up body, and will weep at the foot of a knocked-over stool like it’s an altar.

Dean will go out kicking and screaming, and Sam will die gasping. Again.

//

They pick endless fights, but Dean must die a martyr’s death one day. 

Typical.

Dean dies protecting Sammy. Dean dies torn to ribbons by Hell Hounds, Dean dies with his brother against a wall and his organs on the floor.

So typical.

Dean dies in summer, and Sam and Bobby bury him in an unmarked grave under a bed of June flowers, but Sam carves Dean’s heart out in winter.

Dean lays on his back in some snow-covered farmland in rural Colorado, vast and cold and nothing, with naught but the mountains watching them, still and wise and haunted. Sam straddles his big brother and gets lost in an infinite, blue daze, in the repetitive ease of sinking a knife into his brother’s chest. He peels back Dean’s muscle and cracks open Dean’s ribs, and his shaking hands do their best to be clinical when he pushes his brother’s lungs apart and saws his heart out, but it’s graceless.

There should be no expectations for dead flesh pressed into a dull hunting knife other than gracelessness. 

When he finally pulls Dean’s heart from his chest it’s covered in membrane, purple and yellow and dead, and the blood on Sam’s hands turns to snot and velvet. It’s misshapen in Sam’s fist and nothing like any blue-and-crimson anatomical drawing from any textbook, but Sam shoves it down his throat anyway. He doesn’t chew and it gets stuck in his chest, and he chokes and dies on it.

He falls over and lands on the endless, abyssal chasm he’s created in Dean, and the moon rises, cold and periwinkle above the scene. 

Typical.

So typical.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :o)


End file.
